Page 7 of Caution Tape

There’s a moment, for a while, where I don’t think I’ll be able to come. My face is pressed firmly against her neck, her hands tightly clasped on my shoulders, sighing each time I sink into her.

I wonder what would be perfect to say to her in this moment. I want to reach into the rancid blender of teeth and knives I call a brain and pull out the wickedness in its most delicious form.

How good would it feel to gasp into her ear, “Last night, I killed a deer. The blood was so warm. No, no, shh… listen to me... it felt just how your pussy feels right now.”

The thought sends me into a shuddering orgasm. The moan she hears from me is real.

Chapter Four

Cora

My mom started sending me to therapy when I was eleven. She suspected something was wrong with me and believed that me talking with a therapist would turn me into the daughter she’d always wanted.

I was “broken” and she wanted to fix me. She believed I could be fixed.

But I’d always wondered if that was even possible.

Since I was a little girl, I’ve always been different. The black sheep in my family. Even though I’d been numb my whole life, I surely wasn’t stupid. I knew that I had darkness lurking inside me.

It turned out that my therapist wasn’t cut out for the job. I was immediately referred to a psychiatrist: Michael Burke, M.D. I hated going to therapy, but my mom was persistent. “Talking to a professional will help you,” she would say. Too bad they couldn’t just shove a bunch of medication down my throat and call it a day. Don’t get me wrong, they tried. None of the pills ever seemed to help.

Michael shifts in his chair, resting his ankle over his knee.

“Cora?” he questions.

The loud ticking of clocks drowns out his voice entirely. There must be hundreds of them he has collected over time, hung all over the wall. It’s kind of creepy. I chose one and watch it closely, allowing the time to pass. What is time? Is time even relevant? Does everyone experience time the same?

“Is time even real?” I ask aloud, finally turning my gaze to lock my eyes with his.

He rubs his jaw with his fingers. “Do you believe time is real?” he counters.

“I’m not sure anymore.”

He nods once, and the moment his lips part, I continue.

“If time is real, then why does the world feel so still?” I wonder, allowing my gaze to settle on the clock once more. “If time is real, then where have I been for the last fifty-eight minutes and fifteen seconds? Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nine—“

“You’ve been here, Cora. In my office. With me,” he replies. “Or have you been somewhere else?”

“You lied,” I say nonchalantly, pushing myself up from the sofa.

“Did I?” he asks, studying me as he tilts his head to the side.

“You said with therapy, we would figure out why I feel the way I do. Except years and years and years have passed, and we still don’t have any answers,“ I reply with mild accusation, slipping my hands into my jacket pockets.

“Perhaps we haven’t been asking the right questions,” he points out. “Or perhaps there is a part of you that isn’t ready for the answer.”

Clenching my jaw, I begin pacing the room. “Or maybe there isn’t an answer at all. Maybe this has all just been a massive waste of fucking time.”

“But is time real?” he challenges.

I snort.

Touché.

“Whether it’s real or not,” I begin, gesturing to the wall of clocks with a subtle nod, “Time is up.”

“Only for today,” he declares.

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